


a cracked smile and a silent shout

by DoctorSyntax



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Community: blindfold_spn, Demon!Sex, Discussion of Cannibalism, Episode: s01e22 Devil's Trap, Forced Voyeurism, Gunplay, Incest, M/M, Missing Scene, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate take on the YED!John scene at the end of 1x22. Written for <a href="http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/7359.html?thread=7937983#t7937983">this</a> prompt on blindfold_spn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cracked smile and a silent shout

He can't pinpoint the exact moment everything shifts and his world tilts on its side, but if Dean had to guess he'd say it was sometime after Yellow Eyes used his mind whammy to pin Sam to the wall, and sometime before this exact moment right now: his father staring him down with eyes that aren't his, a demon in his body and clear intent in the way he slides his hand down Dean's side.

Dean knows what's coming, has known it in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach for a few minutes, but he still jumps at the touch, so foreign compared to the way he and his father normally interact. The demon smirks with his father's face and steps back, and when he snaps his fingers Dean goes flying across the room—headed straight for the table.

He throws his arms out in front of him, breaking his fall, and they slam against the table. He's bent over, and invisible hand forcing his legs further apart. As soon as he tries to push himself up he realizes that he can't move away: his feet are stuck to the ground and his forearms to the table. Pinned in place like he'd been against the wall.

"That's better," Yellow Eyes says, stepping behind him. The demon reaches around unzipping his pants and yanking them down around his knees, and the only good thing about this is he doesn't have to watch.

"Get your fucking hands off him!" Sam shouts from somewhere behind them, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Don't look, Sam," he manages, and John laughs.

"Dean, Dean, just who do you think I am?" he drawls, amused. "Little Sammy can't do anything _but_ watch. My gift to him."

"You son of a bitch," Dean accuses.

John leans over and in, close enough for Dean to feel the heat from his body, and whispers in Dean's ear. "He's enjoying it, son."

Dean presses his lips in a tight line and breathes in deep through his nose. He turns his head just enough to look his father in the face. "You're lying," he answers, voice low and sure.

"Am I?" the demon asks, manic glint in the yellow of John's eyes—so close to Dean's own. He can't look anywhere else. "I wish you could see for yourself, Dean. He's so hard, watching your father force himself on you."

"Not dad. You."

"Still his body. And, Dean? How do you know your father isn't enjoying this, too?"

"He's not," Dean denies.

Yellow Eyes laughs and presses John's lower body against Dean. "His body sure is." He's not lying, which is the worst part.

Dean meets those yellow, unfamiliar eyes with all the strength he has left, searching them for some glimpse of his father. "Daddy, please," he whispers, voice breaking over the _please_. "Don't let him do this to me."

Yellow Eyes just laughs in his face. "Here's a newsflash, Dean: _Daddy_ can't do anything. Gotta teach you boys a lesson. You fuck with my family, and I will fuck with yours." He drops to his knees, and Dean swallows back the urge to vomit.

The demon spreads Dean's cheeks and _licks_ , Dean's eyes flying open at the first touch of John's tongue to his skin, because he wasn't expecting anything like this. It's wet and invasive and uncomfortable; so good it sets his nerves on fire—"No," Dean pleads, trying not to squirm; to ignore the wet slick of his father's tongue. "Don't. Just—stop."

The demon pulls back, laughing low. "You're saying no, but I don't think that's what you really mean." He grabs at Dean's half-hard cock, and Dean burns with shame at the way his body has betrayed him. He can't stop the demon, can't help his brother or his father; control over his own reactions was the last thing he had left and now even that's gone. He's helpless, spread and exposed, and has a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that nothing will ever be okay again. And it _could_ be, if only he could move his arm—the Colt is right next to him on the table. 

As if sensing what he's thinking of, Yellow Eyes reaches up and grabs the gun. "I think we can put this to good use, can't we?" he asks, and Dean chokes back a noise as he feels the demon press the muzzle against his entrance, roughly working it back and forth until it slips past the ring of muscle and inside Dean's body.

Dean slows his breathing, concentrating on not moving a fucking inch because one wrong move and the gun goes off, erasing him from existence. Total death: nothing to come back from. The gun is cold and smooth against his skin; sliding with just enough drag to let him feel it, keeping every nerve in his body alert and forcing his fight-or-flight response. But he can't _do_ anything, and adrenaline thrums uselessly through his veins. His muscles shake with the suppressed urge to move, struggle. To fight back.

"I'm going to have your Daddy fuck you now," the demon says casually, working the gun back and forth. "Get all up inside you, show you how a real man feels. But, hey—I promise if you beg me like the slut you are, I _won't_ fuck Sam next. Fight it, and I'll do all this and more to your baby brother." It's not an empty threat: John's voice is low with promise.

Dean can hear Sam's gasp from across the room. "Dean, don't listen to him."

"Do it," Dean grits out, and he's almost surprised by how easy the decision is. But Sam stood by him when he had no proof, just a hunch that something was wrong; chose _Dean_ over everyone and everything else in the world, and Dean cannot—will not—let Sam go through this too.

"Dean, no."

"Sorry, Sammy. Like Dad always said... gotta protect you."

"How sweet," Yellow Eyes interrupts, fucking the Colt a little further into Dean, grinding the trigger guard against his skin. "But I still haven't heard you beg."

Dean drops his head against the table, balling his hands into fists so tight his fingernails cut into the skin of his palms. "Please," he manages.

"Please _who_?"—and the realization of what the demon wants to hear turns Dean's stomach and heats his face. 

_No. No. Please, no. Anything but that._

He doesn't speak, and John sighs and jams the trigger guard of the gun against him again—rougher this time. "I'm waiting," the demon says, bored and dangerous all at once.

"Please..." Dean swallows around bile, but he says it, because he _has to_ : "Daddy."

"No!"

The demon snaps his fingers and Sam's protests turn to muffled shouts, like he's been gagged. "That's better," Yellow Eyes says, and Dean hears a telltale zip and the rustle of denim. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes." There's the heat of skin on skin, and then nothing over the sharp pain of John's cock pressing into him, blunt and thick.

Dean had thought it would be better that he didn't have to see his father do this, but it's worse, so much worse, because the demon's voice is John's voice, the callouses on his hands belong to John; his scent and body are so familiar and Dean can't look him in the eye to remind himself that no, _this isn't his father_.

Spit plus zero preparation isn't enough to ease the way, it's nowhere near enough, and Dean feels his skin burn as it stretches and tears around his father's cock. He tries to force back a scream but he can't; in the back of his mind he's aware that he's bleeding a little, but that's hardly new and he barely registers it. 

"Blood," the demon says, yanking Dean's head back by the hair, "in appropriate quantities, can be a perfectly adequate replacement for lube." He's using John's 'listen up, son, this might save your life one day' voice, which Dean's heard so many times in regard to so many different things that it's almost comforting to hear it now. He grasps at the familiarity even as nausea rolls through his stomach.

Then pain rips through his lower back, Yellow Eyes tearing a set of gashes down it just like he'd done on Dean's shoulder. Dean can feel his blood well up and spill from the cuts, rolling down his ass, his thighs, over and inside of him. The demon fucks into him hard, smearing the blood all over them both, and sweat from John's body stings in the wounds with every drag of his skin against Dean's. 

Dean drops his head and concentrates on Sam's muffled yelling from across the room, the grain of the wood on the table he's splayed over; anything to block out the rough in-and-out slide of John's cock. But then he feels fingers drag through the blood on his flank, and Yellow Eyes forces him to turn his head and watch his father lick the blood from his fingers with a cool smile.

Dean shuts his eyes and something forces them back open. "Didn't I promise you he was going to taste the iron in your blood? Tear you apart?" Yellow Eyes taunts, laughing. He snaps his hips up harder than before, surprising Dean into letting out a grunt of pain. Distantly Dean's aware of Sam in the corner, fighting to free himself, but the demon ignores him:

"And you just thought I was going to make him kill you. Such a disappointing assumption. Because this is so much better. Now Sam, well... he's the golden boy. I won't hurt him unless you make me. But that doesn't mean I can't have my fun making him watch. He can't even blink." Dean makes a low, broken noise. 

Even as he monologues, Yellow Eyes doesn't waver from the slow and brutal pace he's set. "And John... he's terrified. Fighting me with everything he's got and boy, am I enjoying that. But he's tasted your skin, your sweat, your blood. He'll never forget it. Maybe I'll slice off a piece of that pretty flesh, make you watch as he eats it. Or better yet, maybe I'll feed you a little bit of him, so he'll always—be—inside you." Yellow Eyes punctuates each of those last few words with a thrust. "Oh, Dean, you don't know what you're doing to him. You're going to be the best lay he ever had... better even than your whore mother." 

Suddenly the demon falters in his rhythm and yanks himself backward, out of Dean, in one smooth movement; and that's as surprising as anything else that's happened so far tonight. "Stop it," John whispers, and out of the corner of his eye Dean sees a blur of movement; before he knows it, Sam's grabbing the Colt off the table and _that's_ when Dean realizes his arms and feet aren't frozen in place anymore. His legs, unused to supporting his weight, buckle at the knees and his body slams hard against the ground. He can hear voices but can't make out what they're saying. Sam and Dad? Sam and the demon? He doesn't know anymore. 

With a groan he rolls over, anxious to parse what just happened, and he's just in time to watch Sam shoot their father in the leg. "What—" he gasps out, wincing as John thuds to the floor near him. In an instant, Sam's at his side, first grabbing his shoulder then abruptly letting go, hands hovering over Dean, unsure of whether he can touch.

"Dean, Dean, are you okay?" Sam asks, voice something close to hysterical. "Oh, god. You lost a lot of blood."

"Check on Dad," Dean says, because he knows Sam needs to be told. He doesn't want Sam's attention right now, not when he's like this: cold and covered in congealing blood, no secrets left and not even the strength to get his pants back on.

But then John's screaming, begging Sam to kill him and the demon, and Sam's got the Colt turned on John like he's actually going to do it. Dean has to stop him—he can't let their father's life end like this—but he's too broken to move.

"Sam, don't," he forces out, and he doesn't know how Sam hears him over John's shouts of _you shoot me, son, you shoot me in the heart_ , but Sam hesitates long enough for the demon to leave John's body in a cloud of grey smoke and that’s enough for him.

Overwhelmed by relief and exhaustion, Dean drops his head to the cool floor and finally lets himself rest, because it's over.

(He should know better by now: nothing's ever over, not for them.)


End file.
